Claire Gulliver #03 - Intrigue in Italics (9 page)

“With the information I gave them they zeroed in on Sonny. They decided to keep my involvement quiet after they were able to turn one of his buddies, who agreed to testify to avoid the death penalty. It wasn’t the creepy one, the other one. Anyway, it didn’t save him. He was mysteriously murdered while still in police custody. So then I became the only weapon they had to convict Sonny. They said the only way to protect me and their case was for me to go into hiding. I didn’t want to, but they scared me. And apparently there was good reason to be scared.

“It’s been one delay after another. Sonny’s father’s attorneys are apparently very good. But they were never able to get Sonny released on bail, so at least I know he’s not going to turn up. Now I understand the trial is scheduled for September. Finally Sonny will get his day in court. That’s when they plan to convict him of murder on my testimony.

“And, when it’s over, I will go into the Witness Protection Program and start a new life somewhere.”

“Kristen, I don’t know what to say.” Claire shook her head sadly. “Now I’m really sorry I didn’t listen to my mother and just assume it was someone who looked like you.”

“No, believe me, I’ve learned it’s best not to ignore....”

The plate glass window shattered behind them just as the noise reached their ears; their table rocked violently throwing the dishes to the concrete. Claire grabbed the table, preventing it from toppling over and at the same time steadied herself. Being from San Francisco, naturally she first thought “earthquake,” but the loud noise sounded more like an explosion — a very big blast — and it was close.

The car park looked over undulating hills softened by the remnants of the night’s fog. They milled around the bus talking excitedly while waiting their turn to board. The festive mood was contagious, like a group of school children getting ready for a field trip. And that was what it was, a field trip. They would spend the entire day in local wineries, sipping, eating and enjoying the ambiance.

Sal talked quietly to Helga and Frederick in Italian while Wanda, the other assistant chef conferred with Chef Martin while checking off a list as people boarded the bus.

“Okay people, let’s not spend the day in the parking lot. There’s wine to be tasted.” Chef Martin’s voice carried over the noise.

That got a laugh and the pace of boarding speeded up. Millie followed Ruth down the aisle. Ruth was dressed to party in a short cotton sun dress with bare legs and the high-heeled sandals she obviously loved. She did bring a sweater, a concession to Millie’s warning about how cool the cellars were liable to be.

Millie was dressed much more sensibly in lightweight slacks, a sleeveless shirt and a sweater over her shoulders, its sleeves tied around her neck. She had been to visit wineries in California and knew that in spite of the hot dry countryside the cellars used for storing the wines would be cold. And she wore her comfortable rubber-soled walking shoes for walking in the fields, on cobblestones and exploring cellars.

They took the first two seats still available which were behind LiAnn and Sam Ng. The Ng’s were an interesting couple. Millie thought they were in their late seventies, but they could be in their eighties. Both were small, maybe wizened was a better word. Sam had become stooped by the weight of his years, but LiAnn, tiny as she was, held herself erect as if there was a ramrod down her back. She was almost regal in her manner. Last night while talking to them at the cocktail party Millie had learned LiAnn was the matriarch of the large Ng family. Their seven children, thirty-five grandchildren and fifteen great-grand-children all apparently catered to LiAnn, as did Sam.

The entire Ng family seemed to be involved in the restaurant business. Many years ago, in anticipation of Hong Kong reverting to the Chinese, the family had diversified. Now they had children and grandchildren running restaurants in Hong Kong, Vancouver, Honolulu and San Francisco. LiAnn and Sam, pioneers in fusion cooking, still played an active role in all their businesses. They mixed Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese and Italian dishes creating a new craze. They said they came to the Retreat to learn from Chef Martin. Judging by the intense gleam in LiAnn’s eyes, Millie assumed she was another of his fans. And they were here, Sam had added, because they loved Italy.

Now Millie said in LiAnn’s ear as she settled into the aisle seat, “Don’t forget we need to get some ideas for the wine on Monday.”

LiAnn nodded, and then turned to speak rapidly to Sam in what appeared to be some Chinese dialect.

Millie explained to Ruth, “Our group is doing the wine on Monday. LiAnn and I are both admittedly pretty green in our knowledge of wine. We’re a little worried about our ability to contribute to the selection of the right wines. Anything we learn today will be a help.” Then she leaned across the aisle to answer a question from Michael, who was sitting with Randy Jackson.

Randy was from California, not far from where Millie lived in San Francisco. He told her he had worked long and hard to help build a company which supported some of the newest innovations in the computer field. Now, having sold the company, he was at a crossroads. So he decided to give himself a break and pursue his favorite hobby by attending the Culinary Retreat. After he got back he was going to finish remodeling the kitchen in the little house he bought in Menlo Park before deciding what he was going to do next. His computer expertise was lost on this group. None of them even understood the importance of the device his company developed. But he loved to cook, so in that aspect he fit in here.

Randy was young, probably in his twenties, medium build. In fact he looked like the stereotypical computer nerd. He was quiet but pleasant company and while he didn’t belong to the clique with Steven, Zoe and Michael, he sometimes hung around with them.

Helga and Frederick Lowenthal were last on the bus and therefore had to take a seat in the back while Sal dropped into the seat in front with Wanda. Helga smiled at Millie as she passed. She seemed very nice, but then how would Millie know, not being able to communicate with her. Sal had told her the Lowenthals owned an inn on Lake Garda in Italy. It catered to Swiss, Italian and German tourists. They, as many of the others, were here to refresh their skills in Italian cuisine. Millie hoped before the retreat was over to get the address of their inn. She thought Claire might like it to pass on to some of her customers.

“All right, we’re all here. Hang on, we’re away,” Chef Martin called out as the bus door closed with a whoosh and the bus headed out.

The chatter in the bus was deafening. After only two days together friendships had been formed and alliances made.

The first winery was perfect and Millie assumed that’s why they started with it.
Una Cantina Delle Sette Cantine,
Millie let it roll off her tongue, repeating it after Chef Martin. It sounded as lovely as it was. The hills were covered with rows of green vines while the stone buildings of the winery nestled in a little valley. The Seven Cellars Winery seemed an appropriate name as they moved through cellar after cellar cut deep into the stone hills.

“Wow, look at this.” They looked around the huge manmade cavern filled with stainless steel vats and rows and rows of racked bottles.

“Smell it. I think I could get high just from breathing the fumes.”

“Not me, I’m waiting for the real thing,” George retorted, “and I’m starting to feel thirsty.”

Their guide heard George’s comment and assured them. “Soon, I promise you. Only two more cellars to visit and then we come to the VIP tasting room.” He led them into the next cellar, this one containing row after row of beautifully carved, huge white oak aging casks.

“Here are the casks that give our wine that oaky taste we’re known for. These barrels were made in the 17th century and have survived the ravages of time, war and natural disasters. They are very valuable to us as white oak is extremely hard to obtain now. And then, of course, the carvers were artists. It would be impossible to duplicate this quality.” He was willing to pause long enough for them to examine the barrels closely. The carvings done in deep relief were magnificent, every bit as detailed and beautiful as ones Ruth and Millie had admired in the museums in Florence.

But finally they entered the VIP tasting room, an alcove off the last cellar. This room was dark and filled with racked bottles. In the middle of the room was a bar, bathed in light, where the sommelier was waiting to serve them.

“You understand that all other tours end up in the tasting room where we started. There they are given a taste of a select number of wines and can purchase bottles of wine if they wish. However, for this group, we have a special tasting.”

Their guide gestured toward the sommelier wearing his little tasting cup on a chain around his neck. “Henri is here to explain the wines for you. Taste as many as you wish. However, Chef Martin has asked me to remind you there are two more wineries to visit before lunch.”

They laughed. It was a gracious way of telling them they couldn’t stay forever. They surged toward the small bar where Henri presided, pouring generous amounts in the glasses before him. And while they were being passed around, he described the wine.

“This is a classic red Tuscan wine. It's made from Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes from our own vineyards. Notice the color.”

He held his glass up and swirled it. They all followed suit.

“Smell it,” he ordered dipping his nose in the glass and inhaling. “Smell the notes of cherries, smoke and vanilla.” He looked around as one by one they nodded; either identifying the aromas or saying they did rather than admitting their ignorance.

"Taste it.” He took a sip and rolled it around in his mouth, smiling with pleasure when he swallowed it. “Aged twenty-four months in the white oak barrels to get that oaky taste and the body is velvety and smooth; the finish is long and lovely.” He took another sip and they followed suit.

“Now tell me, Chef Martin, wouldn’t you love to serve this with one of your famous pork dishes?”

Chef Martin’s expression conveyed no doubt as to his enjoyment of the wine.

Henri generously poured a bit more in the glasses held out for another taste and then he passed around a little dish of crackers urging them to cleanse their palates before tasting the next.

Finally, several wines later, Henri opened a Moscato d’Asti. “I have been signaled by your leaders you need to be moving on, so I want to give you a taste of this wine. I love this wine. It’s equally perfect to start or finish a meal.” He poured into the new tray of glasses which had been set down in front of him. “It is fabulously fruity.” He swirled again and they all did the same.

Millie was feeling like she was really getting the hang of this swirling business. And she liked the smell of this wine, it was different than the others. She could actually smell the fruity odor. And when she tasted it, she felt the little fizz on her tongue and the slight taste of peach. She would remember this one for sure. But to make sure, she made a little note on the brochure she had picked up at the beginning of the tour.

If the mood had been festive at the start of the morning, it was more so now. The wine had relaxed them and this pleasant visit had only heightened their expectations of what was to come. They were ready for the next winery.

For a moment everyone seemed frozen, then Kristen was on her feet, her eyes wide with horror as she looked back down the street at the smoke pouring out of the building at end of the next block. Little spots of color identified victims down on the street amidst the rubble.

People were already running to their aid, as was Kristen. Grabbing her backpack, she shouted back at Claire, “Come on. Hurry! It’s down near the store...”

The police vehicles, sirens screaming, passed before they even got to the nearest corner, and they could see the police were already cordoning off the street; refusing to let anyone enter.

Kristen paused a moment, then turned to her left running down the street. “This way, we’ll go around behind. Maybe we can get closer from the other street.”

Claire was noisily panting when Kristen stopped. This street was also cordoned off, but they were better positioned to see what was left of the art store on the corner and the building on the other side of the little alley. There were gaping holes through the rubble that had so recently been solid stone walls. They could see the flames. The firefighters were already on the scene connecting their hoses and forming groups preparing to enter both structures. More police, fire trucks and emergency vehicles were arriving filling the street. Passersby and emergency staff attended to victims lying randomly on the street. It looked like a war zone.

Kristen was in shock. She stood pressed against the barricade with tears running down her cheeks as she recited the names of her co-workers. She started forward; she had to get closer.

Claire pulled on her arm. “Wait, you can’t go in there. Can’t you see we’d just be in the way?”